


Bedtime Stories

by orphan_account



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cole-centric, Fluff, light pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 05:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3597297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cole reads a bedtime story to Cullen and Lavellan's children.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bedtime Stories

                Cullen carried his two wiggly boys to bed, one under each arm. He tucked them beneath the blankets, taking a moment to kiss their tiny elf-like feet and smooth back their hair. “I know it’s tough to sleep without Mommy here,” he murmured. He pressed his dry lips to each forehead and they tried to wipe the love-spot clean. Such stubby fingers… Their mother’s, to be sure.

                Josephine came around the corner, already speaking to him from the hallway, but halted her words when she noticed he was preoccupied. It was not her place to discuss politics and war tactics to children, no matter how dire their hour. She smiled tiredly at Cullen, and he returned the look with even greater fatigue. “We will be waiting in the War Room,” she said. “Goodnight boys.”

                “Goodbye Miss Josephine,” they whined as she departed. Then they turned their attention back to Cullen. The older Rutherford boy looked pitifully up at his father. “Don’t you have time to read us a bedtime story?”

                “Not tonight,” he whispered, voice barely carrying over the rushing footsteps in the corridors beyond. “I have to get going.”

                “But mom always…” the younger boy let his voice fall when he noticed the worry in his father’s eyes. He didn’t want to know. Neither of them did.

                Cullen tried to put the concern out of mind. He forced another weary grin. “I know. I’m sorry. But it’s just for tonight.”

                They meant to raise their voices to protest, but cast their gaze to the doorway instead. “I could tell them a story.” Cole. The spirit, though very knowledgeable about people and comfort, had no mind for the war table. The figurines on the map were only abstract things, no more informative than a single dot on endless white. The tiny horses and soldiers never spoke, and Cole had more interest in their rough, wooden edges than keeping them where they were supposed to be, above the blue streaks of the river and below the checkmark-mountains.

                “Are… you sure?” Cullen was not willing to refuse the offer. They needed him to go find a winning tactic, something to keep their outbound soldiers alive through the dawn. He wanted to ease his dear sons more than anything, but it was fine this way. After this long, even a former Templar had no doubts regarding Cole. “Thank you.” Cullen kissed each of his sons again, hiding his quivering hands in their blankets before leaving them for the night.

                Cole climbed up on the bed, legs crossed, and smiled for the children. There was no hint of concern, only genuine excitement on his face. Their worry subsided for the moment. “What stories does your mother like to tell?” He already knew, but children liked questions. Know things already, not unwise, just young, excited, remembering, not unable to think for themselves.

                “She reads out of this book.” The older boy reached for the sloppy tome propped up by the nightstand. He crawled over the mattress to give Cole the bound pages before slipping back into his place, pulling stolen covers away from his brother. “The ones about danger are the best.”

                “I like the kissing ones,” the other giggled.

                Cole thumbed through the pages, skimming the inky lines. He was not a strong reader; the letters danced before his eyes and preferred to form pictures than sounds. But Cole knew the way these tales were supposed to go. They were happy things, with hope and love, brimming with excitement and good triumphing over evil. Heroes smiting villains. Inquisitor defeating Magister. He picked a page with a fun looking title and smiled, tracing the chapter number with his fingertip. “Let’s read this one. ‘The Twelve Huntsmen’.”

                They squirmed until they were comfortable and waited for Cole to begin. The spirit cleared his throat, the way Varric liked to, and began.

                “Once, there was a princess and a prince that loved one another. Hands grasping, hair tangles in the wind as they embrace and kiss, the sunset beyond them as red as their cheeks.” He looked ahead on the page, but the words were fumbling in his mind. Cole closed his eyes. He knew this story, didn’t he? It was better when it was told like a faithful truth.

                “She loved him, but he had to go. There was a cold, withering ache in his home, and the princess was warm brightness that could never touch it. His father was dying. He held her hand from the horse, then it slipped away, he slipped away, a speck on the hills that she could not see in the darkness. She whispered like his voice had whispered, ‘I will come back,’ but the doubt had followed, too. She waited until she was cold, but his speck never came back over the green hill.”

                Cole passed the younger boy a blanket before he had to ask. He held it against his cheek and tried to ignore the want to suck his thumb. He had to break the habit, Mother said. There are things to put in a mouth; food, breath, funny jokes that can’t come off the tongue yet… not thumbs.

                “A different man came to her instead, and he gave her a letter that made her chest hurt and her eyes burn. Her love, his tears had stained the black words, his pain written in a tired way. No more father, but the father’s wish remained to hurt the son he loved so much. ‘It was for the best’ his father said to him, he said to her, she read in shaking breaths. ‘It was for the best that I marry a different princess, for that is what this kingdom needs’. The princess went to her own father, held his wrinkled cheek, and spoke with him until dawn and he could hear her broken heart rattle in her throat.

                “She could not fall in love with another, and so she had to go beyond the hills herself, the weight of abandonment on her pauldrons and leather hood. Not alone, but with others who understood, like her, faces like hers, beautiful and unhappy, dreams bigger than the tasks that had been left for them. Eleven other brideless mourners, eleven beautiful, broken, wind-seeking girls to ride beyond the horizon and sit beside a love none of these twelve could have. A hurt to help, an ache to sooth, maybe willing to leave if only he was surely happy, his new wife surely perfect, devoted, passion and compassion, holding his hands and kissing the sunset together.”

                Cole turned his attention to the hallway, the footsteps all gone, the world quiet. Everyone was busy. He looked back at the book before continuing his methods; the boys had yet to dislike it, anyways. “They came to the new castle, all dressed as men without faces, shadows to hide themselves, and they said ‘We are Huntsmen’. The princess remembered what he had needed, other than her kisses on his forehead and the words that soothed away agony. He let them inside, past the gate, down the stairs, into the castle, lies surrounded by grey, gloom, grim aftermath of the funeral for a good old king. ‘You will be my Huntsmen,’ he agreed to all twelve, but in the slumped shoulders of the leader, his loyalty to old ache, the prince found a favorite. The first smile since his hand fell from his love’s, and it was for this hunter.

                “The prince inherited from his father a lion that spoke in realities and mysteries, smart and loyal, wanting nothing but the truth even if it hurt, because the truth was right, rightness was strength. Like a lion.”

                “Father is like a lion,” one boy giggled before being hushed by his brother. “Well, he is!”

                Cole smiled. “He was not a nice lion like Cullen. He didn’t like the Huntsmen because they lied, even though they lied for a good reason. Cullen wouldn’t mind; he would have let them all stay.” Cole lifted the book up again. “The Lion told the prince they were girls, and it made him laugh, but not a happy laugh. Broad in shoulder, heavy feet with heavy boots, sure-shot aim, and no skirts, bows, frills. The lion said ‘Spread peas on the floor, and they will not step on them. Girls have careful feet that do not crush’.”

                The older son scoffed. “I’ve never seen Mom step gentle around anything!”

                Cole laughed. “You’re right. The lion was not very smart.” He turned the page and pretended to find his proper paragraph. “A servant overheard, and she thought it was silly, so she came to the Huntsmen and told the secret. They knew better than to nudge or tip-toe, jump, avoid when they saw green upon the throne-floor. They crushed the peas when they saw them, and the Lion’s tail twitched, a roar in his throat, anger prickling his mane.

                “The Lion told the prince again, alone on in the room, no queen or father, only too-loud breathing in emptiness. ‘If you put spindles in the room, women will notice them. A Huntsman will not care, but they are women and they will go to the familiar thing’. The prince was angry, tired, waiting too long to meet a new princess, not wanting to meet the new princess, weeping for the past as it burned his eyes and hurt his mind. But he would let the lion be wrong again. And again the spying servant told the funny story to the disguised girls. They would not look at the spinning wheels. Hate the spinning, wool and thread on a loom, making patterns for other people as red as the blood of jousting, silver armor, things they could not have before. They did not want the wheels anyways, and they did not look when they saw them, so the Lion must have been wrong.”

                “Do you think Mom knows how to use sewing?”

                The brother shook his head. “No but I bet dad does.”

                “Probably,” Cole shrugged. “The prince thought the Lion was a cruel liar, and he liked the Huntsmen more than he liked the untrue truths. He liked the way the Huntsmen who was secretly a princess walked, confident, smooth strides, hands at the side and hovering at the hip when he stood, a comfortable way to see somebody new, reminding him of something gone. He was less homesick with hunting because of the Huntsmen. He hunted a lot, and the Lion was left to be quiet.

                “But when they went hunting under a cold, afternoon sun, the Prince received a letter from a passing horsemen. All thirteen riders, unlucky number, unlucky news, unfortunate fate for a weary hunt, stopped. He spoke the words slow, but to the Princess they were fast and hot, arrows raining from above but all striking her. ‘My bride is nearly here’.

                “The Princess fell from her horse. The Huntsmen were afraid, but not as afraid as the Prince. He cried out and ran to the man, pull his head from the dirt to breathe, check for hurt, pull away to hood to check the mouth.

                “But it was her.”

                Cole shifted and cleared his throat, his own cheeks a little red. Of course these things were not as warm as Cassandra’s books, but it made Cole feel similar. The love, even the love he imagined, was important. Like Cullen holding his Elven wife every night even when he was tired, or the way Dorian kissed under Iron Bull’s missing eye even if he thought it looked silly, or the shy glances Krem gave to Scout Harding because he was too shy for flowers. Love was important and this made Cole feel he was smiling too much.

                “The prince felt his hurt leave, because he saw the hurt he had given and it was too much. What fingers but hers would he ever want on his chest? What hair but hers tickling his nose at night? The touching of lips in the dark, alone, and any face, all faces he imagined, hers. He looked up at the messenger and told him something for the approaching princess. ‘She does not need to marry me. She cannot. I am already in love.’

                “They melted together in his arms, tears and smiles, blessings. And from there they knew no further loneliness, and the Huntsmen knew spinning wheels never again. The other princess was not sad, because she had felt it, felt it somewhere in her heart, that this love was not for her and the Prince. And the Lion was right all along, straight spine, head high, and a usual grumble. They all found happiness.”

                Cole shut the book and smiled to the boys, whose eyelids were finally drooping. He fixed their blankets one more time and blew out the candles, putting the book back in its usual place. “Goodnight,” he murmured.

                “Goodnight, Cole.”

**Author's Note:**

> "The Twelve Huntsmen" is a classic Brothers Grimm tale.


End file.
